


Things Almost Despaired Of

by brynnmck



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-20
Updated: 2007-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Vecchio was flirting with the receptionist.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Almost Despaired Of

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://ds-raysquared.livejournal.com/profile)[**ds_raysquared**](http://ds-raysquared.livejournal.com/) opening festivities, YAY! This is sort of from the prompt "miscommunication," and sort of from a conversation with [](http://izzybeth.livejournal.com/profile)[**izzybeth**](http://izzybeth.livejournal.com/) , who reminded me that I one day wanted to use the phrase "play[ing] 'hide the Italian sausage'" in relation to Vecchio. (So, um, thanks? Hee.) Thanks to [](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/)**sdwolfpup** for poking at this till it made sense.

Vecchio was flirting with the receptionist.

Ray shook himself, trying to focus on the task at hand, which was getting information about the last known whereabouts of Danny Fitzpatrick, and that was what Vecchio was trying to do.

By flirting with the receptionist.

And OK, fuck _that_ , what the fuck did Ray care if Vecchio flirted with the receptionist? What was he, a chick? Ray flirted with women all the time—you spent your days surrounded by guys and most of your nights surrounded by one particular guy, who also happened to be one of the guys you spent your day surrounded by, you appreciated a little variety every now and then, no matter how good a blowjob you'd gotten that morning from said guy you spent your nights with. So if that guy wanted to waste everybody's time batting those long eyelashes at a bottle-blonde bimbo who liked a man with a badge and had more tits than brains, well, who was Ray to—

"I'm gonna go talk to the security guard," he muttered in Vecchio's ear. Vecchio broke off his Romeo routine long enough for a surprised look, but Ray just gave him and the receptionist a big fake smile and headed off to hassle the nearest rent-a-cop.

Of course, about fifteen minutes later it was painfully obvious that the rent-a-cop was even dumber than the receptionist, and Ray couldn't stop wondering what Vecchio and the receptionist were up to now, which was even dumber than the rent-a-cop, because him and Vecchio, it wasn't like they were _married_ or something, it had only been a couple of months, wasn't like they'd even talked about—

"Hey," Vecchio said, coming up behind him. "I got it. Come on." He clapped Ray on the shoulder and headed out toward the car like he didn't have a single damn care in the world.

Ray hurried to catch up with him; it was his car, dammit, and he was sure as hell driving.

The bullpen was deserted when they got back—it was Saturday and the only reason Ray and Vecchio had gotten roped into this was that the tip had been hot and the commissioner wanted Fitzpatrick bad. Turned out Fitzpatrick was laying low, though, and probably would be for the next week or so, so Ray had officially given up part of his Saturday to watch Vecchio flirt with a receptionist _and_ not get their suspect. Win-win all around.

"We missed lunch—you wanna go grab some food?" Vecchio asked him when they finished up their paperwork. Well, Vecchio finished up the paperwork, actually, while Ray leaned against the wall next to the desk and corrected Vecchio's typing, but that was only because Ray wasn't allowed near the keyboard anymore after the fifth one he'd broken. Vecchio had been giving him funny looks since they'd gotten in the car, but hadn't said anything, which was not quite receptionist-level annoying, but it was pretty damned close.

Ray shoved off the wall next to the desk and wandered over to the facing wall, planted his back and one foot flat against it and let his leg jitter restlessly. "Maybe we _wouldn't've_ missed lunch…" he mumbled, somehow scraping together just enough pride not to finish the sentence.

Vecchio stood up and stretched, all stupid expensive fabric draped over long, lean lines, and Ray's mouth watered a little bit. "Come on," Vecchio said. "I'll even buy."

Fuck _that_. "I am not a chick, OK, Vecchio?" Ray snapped. "I do not need you to buy me lunch."

Vecchio rolled his eyes. "All right, that's it. What the hell is your problem, Kowalski? Somebody piss in your Wheaties this morning? You've been sulking ever since we left Dinaro's office."

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't appreciate having to do our job by myself while you play hide-the-Italian-sausage with Little Suzy Sunshine!" Ray burst out. He could feel his neck getting hot. Vecchio just laughed.

"OK, first of all, her name was Sarah, and second of all, I got Fitzpatrick's last-known, and third of all—'hide the Italian sausage?'" he repeated, grinning, eyebrows raised. "That's a good one, Stanley, you been working on that one?" He moved closer, that slow smooth _stalk_ he did sometimes, and Ray couldn't decide whether he wanted to pop him one or kiss the smug smile off his face.

"Fuck you," he sneered, figuring that was a good middle-of-the-road answer.

"Italian sausage," Vecchio said again, close now, teasing, his breath warm on Ray's neck. "I like that. You, ah." He pressed his hips into Ray's. "You hungry, Kowalski?"

Cheesy fucking line, and Ray should've laughed, but Vecchio's voice was low and hot in his ear and Ray was turned on and pissed off and couldn't have said where the line was, so he pushed back hard with his hips, heard Vecchio inhale sharp, and that was good, that was… _something_. He leaned forward and smashed his mouth to Vecchio's, using maybe a little more teeth than he meant to. Or maybe exactly how much he meant to, because Vecchio was only into it for a few seconds before he forced himself back, mouth swollen and a look in his eyes like Ray was a suspect whose story didn't quite add up. _Shit_ , Ray thought, panic jumping in his stomach, and he tried to lean in again, but Vecchio held him still.

"You're serious, aren't you?" Vecchio demanded.

Ray licked his lips, forced a grin. "You know me, Vecchio, I am never serious."

Unfortunately, Vecchio was many things, but dumb he was not. "You are," he said, tilting his head to the side, a half-smile sliding across his face. And not his usual smile, either, that bright, goofy thing that Ray would never admit made his knees kind of weak when he wasn't ready for it. This was the kind of smile Vecchio gave to the scumbags who ran drugs and guns down at the docks, this was his fuck-you smile, his just-give-me-an-excuse smile. Ray swallowed hard. "You really think I would—" Vecchio started, and just for a second, something flashed in his eyes, something raw and hurt and every bit as fucked up as Ray felt, and then it was all ice again, flash-frozen. "Fuck _you_ , Kowalski," Vecchio said softly, shoving him a little harder against the wall, then turned around and walked out the door.

 

*****

 

Ray made it three hours, ten rounds with the heavy bag, and a few more with a bottle of whiskey before he finally gave up and took a cab to Vecchio's apartment. The front door was easy; he offered to help carry groceries for the old lady who lived on the third floor, which he figured balanced out his karma for sneaking into the building. Then, after she was happily settled with her prune juice, he took the crappy elevator up five floors and leaned on the buzzer outside Vecchio's door. His finger was getting sore and he was trying to think what he could do to balance out the karma of kicking somebody else's door down when Vecchio finally answered, still wearing his work shirt and slacks, eyes tired and mouth hard.

"I should report you for disturbing the peace," Vecchio told him.

Ray shrugged, stuck his hands in his pockets. "In this neighborhood? Unless somebody's dead, you're gonna be pretty low on the list."

Vecchio stared at him for a few seconds, then muttered, "Don't tempt me," and swung the door open wider so Ray could come inside.

Vecchio's apartment was small, just like Ray's was—shitty salaries and long hours, just a few of the many perks of life at the 2-7. Ray hadn't been there much, though; they usually ended up doing their thing at his place, since it was closer to the station, and even the times they had wound up at Vecchio's, Ray'd been too busy trying to get both of them naked to take the full guided tour.

Now, though, since he wasn't sure he'd ever be getting Vecchio naked again, it seemed like a good time to take a look around, especially if it meant he didn't have to see the expression on Vecchio's face.

"You look like shit," Vecchio said from a few feet behind him, over the sound of the door clicking shut.

"Thanks," Ray answered, his eyes skipping from one thing to another around the room. Man. Vecchio's stuff was all so _neat_. Coasters on the coffee table, marble bookends on the shelves, _Sports Illustrated_ stacked up in a basket next to the couch. Maybe in date order. Jesus. Ray didn't remember Vecchio's profile saying he was OCD, and his files at the station were a complete clusterfuck, so Ray wasn't sure what gave, here. It tugged at something behind his ribs, but he ignored it, cleared his throat.

"I'd offer you a drink," Vecchio went on, "but it smells like you got that part covered."

"I got a mom already, Vecchio," Ray started automatically, which he knew was a dumb thing to say, but somehow his mouth didn't seem to care.

"Look, man, _you_ showed up at _my_ door." Vecchio walked around so he was right in front of Ray, filling up his vision, green eyes burning bright above the white of his wrinkled shirt. "You come here to give me your family tree? Or did you have something you wanted to say?"

Ray's fingers were twitching; he reached out and grabbed the nearest thing he could reach, a little statue sitting on the table next to the couch. "OK, about earlier." He focused on the statue, held it between his finger and thumb, flipping it back and forth, rapping against his knuckles. "I… I didn't mean… I haven't had…" He breathed out hard, flipped the statue faster. Maybe it was too late and the whole thing was a lost cause, but he had to know where he stood. "Look, I know what it's like to get divorced from Stella, OK, and coming out from undercover, and maybe this is just… I dunno. Killing time."

"Killing time, huh?" Vecchio repeated quietly, and Ray's stomach tightened. Much as he complained about how Vecchio never shut up, Vecchio quiet kind of scared the shit out of him.

"Vecchio—"

But Vecchio wasn't listening, pacing across the room, until he turned back to face Ray with both arms held out at his sides. "Jesus Christ, Kowalski, I'm gonna be forty soon." His voice was getting louder now, but that somehow that wasn't any better than the quiet. "I lost a year and a half of my life to the desert and another half-year to that goddamn bowling alley—you think I'm fucking around, here? You think I got time to waste?"

"I'm just saying—" Ray sputtered, but Vecchio rode right over him again.

"Yeah, I heard what you said." He took a couple of steps back toward Ray, one finger pointed accusingly. "I'm not jerking you around, you jackass, and if you think that I _would_ , after everything, well." He shook his head. "You're a hell of a lot stupider than I thought."

Vecchio's feet were planted wide underneath him and just about every muscle in his body was screaming _let's go, asshole, you and me_ , and Ray realized his own fists had clenched without him realizing it, muscle memory. But the dumb little statue was still in his right hand, awkward, poking into his fingers, and it made him hesitate just enough to breathe, just enough to _think_ for a second. He bit the inside of his cheek, looking closer at Vecchio's face. There was something going on here, something big, maybe, and he wasn't sure he wanted to sock Vecchio more than he wanted to know what it was.

"After everything, what?" he said finally, cocking his head to the side.

Vecchio blinked. "What?"

"You said 'after everything,'" Ray repeated. "What's 'everything,' exactly?"

Vecchio hesitated, then shrugged, laughing a little. "You, me, Stella, Fraser, Florida, Canada, my car… hell, even Dief." One side of his mouth stayed curved. "I don't know if you've noticed, Kowalski, but we got a pretty fucking bizarre history, here."

Ray laughed, too, let his chin fall to his chest for a couple of seconds. "Yeah. Yeah, I noticed that."

"So." Vecchio held out his arms at his sides again, but different this time. Not open, exactly, but not pissed off, either. Just… balanced. Waiting. "What're we gonna do?"

Ray had absolutely not one clue how to answer that, and his eyes slid away, trying to find something to focus on that wasn't Vecchio's face, wasn't the look in Vecchio's eyes. His search got stuck on a shoe rack in the corner, trying to figure out what the fuck Vecchio needed with a shoe rack in his living room when Ray knew damn well there was another one in the bedroom closet, and then, out of nowhere, it hit him, _bam_ , right in the center of his chest—maybe _that's_ what Vecchio was doing here, with the careful stacks and the coasters and his little ducks all in a row. Maybe he had to keep things all nice and tidy because he was right on the edge of something—balanced, waiting—and he didn't want to fall either way.

Well. If there was one thing Ray knew how to do, it was push.

Or in this case, pull, which was exactly what he did as soon as he got within reach of Vecchio, his index fingers hooked through those fancy designer belt loops. They worked pretty much like regular belt loops, though, and Vecchio came up hard against him with a grunt, his hands sliding up Ray's forearms.

Ray took a deep breath, rested his forehead against Vecchio's. "I'm an asshole," he said. OK, _muttered_ , maybe, but he was saying it, anyway, and he figured that's what counted.

"Yes, you are," Vecchio agreed, but he was smiling now. "Fortunately, you have a few redeeming qualities."

"Oh yeah?" Ray asked, smiling back, and then Vecchio's mouth was on his, slow and sweet and wet, making him dizzy.

"Yeah," Vecchio murmured after a while, kissing Ray's jaw now, his cheekbone, the edge of his eyebrow. "Even if you do like pineapple on pizza. Though maybe now I can convince you—"

But Ray could see where this was going, and he interrupted, "Vecchio, if this is gonna involve the words 'Italian sausage,' I gotta warn you, this might not end up like you want it to."

Vecchio's chuckle rolled into Ray's ear, warm and rich. "Hey, you brought it up."

"Well," Ray said, sliding one hand down between Vecchio's legs, feeling the hard, smooth line of him. He heard Vecchio's breath hiss through his teeth. "Speaking of which…" He started to move his other hand toward the catch on Vecchio's slacks, and realized he was still holding the statue, its little wooden nose smashed against his finger.

"Hey, what is this, anyway?" he asked Vecchio, putting just enough space between them that he could hold up the statue in his open palm.

"What?" Vecchio blinked, his eyes heavy and hot, but he looked down anyway. "Oh, that," he said. "Saint Jude. Patron saint of lost causes."

Ray felt his jaw drop. Of everything in the room he could've picked up… "No way."

Vecchio just shrugged, and Ray could almost hear the _click_ as he made the connection, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Last thing I bought before I left Florida."

Ray whistled low. "OK, that is just fucking _weird_. Are you serious?"

Vecchio's smile was full-force now, kind of embarrassed and kind of freaked out and—as he watched Ray's face—maybe kind of hopeful, too. "You know me, Kowalski," he said, "I am _always_ serious."

Ray snorted out a laugh and looked down at the statue again, then back up at Vecchio. "Lost causes, huh?"

Vecchio lifted a shoulder, eyebrows raised. "Yep."

"Sounds about right," Ray grinned, and when Vecchio leaned in again, Ray met him halfway and kissed him hard, like an underline, like a promise. Vecchio groaned, opened wider against him, tugging Ray's shirt up so he could get his hands underneath. Ray's heart was thudding hard against his ribs. But just before he lost his mind completely, he made sure he tucked the statue safely into his pocket, just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a traditional Catholic prayer to St. Jude (and yes, the fact that I used this in relation to boysex kind of fills me with extra glee): "… the Church honors and invokes you universally as the patron of hopeless cases, of things almost despaired of. Pray for me, I am so helpless and alone."


End file.
